


What Evil Lurks in the Heart of Rick?

by Hoodoo



Series: The Bar at the End of the Universe [5]
Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Blood and Injury, Dark, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fighting, Gore, Knives, Non-Consensual Bondage, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Wrist Cuffs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-02
Updated: 2017-12-04
Packaged: 2019-02-09 10:02:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12885510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hoodoo/pseuds/Hoodoo
Summary: The lovely Maidservant_Hecubus wanted to see how our intrepid bartender [you!] would handle Evil Rick. Let's find out, shall we?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Maidservant_Hecubus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maidservant_Hecubus/gifts).



> Those tags aren't just for show, dearies.

“Hey—no kids in here! House rules!”

The barked order is loud enough to make the rest of the place go quiet. You stop, mid-uncapping a beer bottle, and look over. 

The bouncer is marching over to the door, to the Rick who’d just entered. You've never seen this one before. 

“No! Kids!” the bouncer emphasized, stepping into Rick’s personal space.

You crane your neck to see who he’s talking about. A boy, half-hidden behind Rick, peering warily around. 

“What—you-you t-t think the Feds are gonna raid this place, raid it and shut it down?” Rick sneered back, just as loudly and not intimidated. “Hell, I’d half expect them to be eyein’ up and playing with some barely legal snatch and dick in the back room of this shithole.”

The bouncer puffed up in rage, an impressive move since he was already larger than most other bipeds in the room.

“Come on, Grandpa—we shouldn’t be here. You’ve already had too much to drink. We should go,” the kid piped up. 

His voice wouldn’t have been heard if the rest of the patrons weren’t so quiet. You can see him tugging Rick’s lab coat.

“Shut it, Morty!” Rick spit, yanking his coat out of the boy’s hands. “I’m _thirsty_ and I am getting a _fucking drink.”_

That’s Morty? You’ve hardly ever seen one before. Definitely never met one, despite your encounters with so many Ricks. Were they all so . . . pitiful? The kid was still mostly hiding behind his grandfather, looking nervous and scared. He was wearing an eyepatch and had to turn his head more dramatically to see more of the room. His gaze landed on you for a moment, then flicked away nervously again.

His Rick had a healed scar bisecting his lips, and looked a little worse for wear than an average counterpart. Dark circles decorated under his eyes. It didn’t make him look as tired as it may on other people, but more menacing, especially paired with eyes that were as sharp as any other Rick’s. Plus arriving at the Bar drunk? Whichever dimension these two came from, it must not be an easy one.

Rick had turned his attention back to the bouncer. “I know a simple-minded douche bag like you can barely follow the linear flow of this conversation, but your best option right now is to let me by.”

Working at this bar wasn’t for the timid. Your co-worker, the hired muscle, had broken up fights, personally held off a tripping K-Lax junkie trying to rob the place, and given expedited, no-time-for-niceties exits to belligerent drunks by literally throwing them out the door.

But something made him hesitate here. He looked down at something Rick was holding, then tossed a glance back at you. From across the room you could see the worry on his face.

You frowned, then gave a slight nod and held up one finger.

“One drink, Sanchez,” the bouncer said. “And the kid sits quietly and doesn’t do anything.”

Rick smirked. “Like he would anyway. Morty knows his place. Come on, Morty.”

The bouncer stepped out of the way. You notice a flash in one of Rick’s hands, like a mirror catching a light, but the hand dipped back into his pocket and you can’t tell what it could have been.

He, with Morty at his heels, makes their way to the bar through the patrons silently watching them. As they start to take their stools, however, the noise of individual conversations starts to trickle back.

You’re waiting for them as they sit.

“Don’t try me, baby,” Rick says, before you have chance to open your mouth. “Are you going to pretend he just gave in back here? I saw you signal him. He’s pussy-whipped.”

You continue to level your gaze at him, then push the opened beer bottle you’ve been holding this entire time across the bar to him.

“The fuck? I want a vodka, not a shitty beer—“

You interrupt him fiercely. “You’re getting one drink. And that drink is this beer. And then you’re going to get the hell out of this bar.”

“Ouch, baby, you might make me think I’m unwanted here,” he says sarcastically, but takes the bottle.

You ignore his snide remark and turn to the boy at his side.

“You’re Morty?” you ask in a less hostile tone.

“Y-yeah.”

“Nice to meet you,” you tell him, and grab the bar gun to fill him a glass with cola without asking if he wanted it. You slide it more gently to him then you did Rick’s bottle.

“Thank you,” he squeaked sincerely.

He sips his drink while Rick pounds the beer. You attend to other customers but keep half an eye on the two of them—Rick, mostly. Almost as soon as he finishes and the empty bottle touches the bar, your co-worker lays a heavy hand on his shoulder.

“Time to go.”

“Motherfucker—take you hand off of me!” Rick erupts, twisting.

Several things happen at once:

—the other patrons fade back, out of the line of fire in whatever is going to transpire—

—the bouncer, anticipating Rick’s reaction, gets another hand on the man’s other shoulder—

—Rick’s hand disappears into his pocket again and emerges with something—

—it’s a knife, not a gun, you register as you scramble for the actual gun hidden under the bar—

—Morty shrieks and grabs at his grandfather too—

—his movement sweeps his glass of cola, sending it skittering across the wooden bar, where it flips and smashes into you—

—and you’re suddenly soaked in cold, sticky soda.

As quickly as all the movement began, it seemed to stop.

Morty is still shrieking, but it’s apologies to you. The bouncer disarmed Rick, who struggles but can’t break the full nelson your co-worker managed to wrap him up in. You’re frozen for a moment, then spitting out sugary liquid and wiping your face of it too.

“Sanchez, you are way outta line!” the bouncer bellows, and starts dragging him towards the door.

The crowd parts to let him pass like they’re the Red Sea and he’s a biblical prophet.

“I’m so sorry! I am so sorry!” Morty repeats and repeats. “He’s not normally like this—well, he is, but I don’t know what happened, this got way out of hand—“

“It’s okay. Morty, it’s okay!” you insist, as you grab the cleanest rag you can find and blot at your shirt.

The poor kid looks miserable.

You try and divert his attention. “Is he going to get you home okay?”

“I can drive the ship,” he tells you.

“Well, be careful . . .”

“You too,” he says over his shoulder as he hurries after Rick through the wake of people. You watch as he stops to tie his shoe, and then he scurries to catch up.

It was an odd thing to reply, but he was pretty flustered.


	2. Chapter 2

You leave work early. You hate not finishing a shift—less tips to take home and more work for everyone else—but you’re sticky and gross and need a shower.

Arriving at your flat, you struggle to get the key in the lock of your door.

“Stupid, tiny—“ you mutter crossly to yourself before finally lining up everything correctly and entering.

You strip, dropping damp, tacky pieces of clothing like a trail of breadcrumbs on your way to the shower. You’ll deal with the ants that’ll be attracted to the sugar later.

Under the hot, streaming water, you’re suddenly so tired. The water feels nice, it feels great to remove the layer of crust from that damn spilled drink, and you’re almost asleep on your feet. Carefully—the shower is the most common place for a slip and fall!—you shut the flow off and step out.

Drying yourself off is a chore. You can barely lift your arms to towel your hair. Everything seems so heavy and your movements are sloth-like. In the far reaches of your slow brain a tiny thought— _why are you so tired? It’s only eleven and you’re usually up till three or four!_ —wiggles around, but everything is dampened too, and it’s too hard to focus on it. Each blink keeps getting longer and longer . . .

You manage to stumble to your bed and collapse on top of the blankets, and you’re out.

⁂ ⁂ ⁂ ⁂ ⁂

Something is happening. Something is happening. A niggly little voice in the back of your head pokes and pokes at you. You want it to go away so you can just sleep, and in a drunken motion, you flick your hand toward it. Your hand doesn’t seem to move much.

“So you're alive,” someone says, from far away.

Something is happening. Wake up.

“Can you hear me? Huh? Huh?”

Fingers are snapped near your ear and you jump a little. 

Wake up. Wake up.

“Whatever. Makes no difference, no nevermind to me. It’s nice you’re already naked for me, baby.”

You try to place the voice . . . Rick? What Rick?

There’s a shifting and dipping of the mattress.

Wake up, that voice in your brain says. WAKE! UP!

When a warm sweaty hand slips between your thighs and spreads them, you do.

The Rick from the Bar, the one with the scarred lips, is on the bed with you. You’re naked, like you remember, but your wrists are cuffed above your head, to your headboard. He’s dressed with the exception of his belt and pants undone, and he’s drooling as he watches his own hand. A droplet falls from his chin and lands on your hip.

“What the fuck?!” you shout, well, it’s still a little slurred but the point was made.

Rick jumps a little, then leers. “Ha! I knew you’d be feisty! I mean, it was hard to tell how much of it you got, since most of it was spilled. Hard to dose it when it’s just a guesstimate. Didn’t know if you’d get enough to not do anything or kill you.”

You try to push yourself back, away from him, trying to work through what he was saying with a foggy brain. “Wait—what? I've been _drugged_? You put something in your grandson’s drink to drug him and _I_ got it? You’re a fucking psycho!”

He’s chuckling, like you’re precious. “No, it wasn’t for him and it was _calculated,_ baby. D-don’t worry your pretty little head about it. Just lay back and let this happen.”

He pulls at your leg again, and damn it, you’re still out of it enough not to be able to fight him. Helplessly, you have to watch as he shoves a rough hand at your pussy. 

“Christ, baby, you’re dry. Gonna hurt if you don’t loosen up a bit.”

Maybe it would have been better if you’d stayed unconscious. There’d never been a Rick who’d done something this heinous; you’d never had a Rick _drug you._ This was a nightmare. 

Rick jams a finger inside you. It hurts, you yelp, and he laughs. 

Maybe you should just pretend it’s not happening and then it’ll be over—

Fuck that.

With each passing second, you’ve gotten more control back. You’re still woozy, but can feel your extremities. Callously Rick adds another finger, and with less effort than you thought it might take, you swing your leg up and over and knee him in the side of the head.

He yelps, this time, and you barely contain a cry too; that really hurt. 

“Fuck! You bitch!” he spits angrily and presses a hand to side of his face. You’ve given him a mouse near his eye and it’s swelling rapidly. As you watch, blood starts dripping down his cheek.

“Get out!”

He laughs. “Right. You think I put this much effort into something and not get some pussy?”

You swing a leg towards him again, but there’s no chance to reach him as he easily moves out of range. You watch as he flexes his jaw and winces from the pain on the side of his face. He mutters something under his breath, then leaves the room with his hand still on his face.

As soon as his back is turned, you struggle against your restraints.

The cuffs he used are the ones you purchased when Riq was coming around. Luckily for you, they were cheap because heavy duty leather was expensive, and even luckier: Rick didn’t realize that one had a loose bit of stitching.

You pull and strain and slowly the seam splits. You keep an ear out for Rick, but it sounds like he’s rummaging through the cabinet in the bathroom.

The pain in your wrist is sharp and chases away a lot of the lingering effect of whatever drug he used. You realize your wrist is bruising and scraped, but you continue, forcing yourself to get free before that maniac comes back.

With a last, supreme effort, you slip the cuff. 

Quickly you unbuckle the other one. 

Now, do you confront him in the other room or surprise him here? Can you sprint passed him to the front door and escape?

The decision is made for you when he walks back in holding a wet cloth to his face.

“You little shit,” he says. He almost sounds impressed.

You’re at a disadvantage here. You’re naked and trying to shake off the remaining traces of that drug, and he’s _Rick._ You wrack your brain for a solution out of this.

He’s dressed but his pants are partially dropped; that’ll hinder his movements a little. If you get his portal gun, you go through it or shove him through . . . that means getting up close and personal, and maybe that’s not the best idea—

You need to hold him off, keep him talking, to buy yourself some more time. Maybe an opportunity for something will present itself.

“You’re an idiot, Rick,” you tell him. Not the best opening gambit, insulting his intelligence. The adrenaline starting to pump through you makes it hard to figure out what to say. “You have to know I’ve slept with a lot of Ricks. You just needed to ask!”

The confession seems to surprise him. “Really?” he asks, cocking his head.

“You could have just _talked_ to me,” you insist, like this was some kind of inane sit-com misunderstanding. “I don’t bite—unless you want me too, haha! We could have a lot of fun, you and me, if you’d just—“

“Nah,” he interrupts, with a slight head shake. “I just t-t-take what I want. Besides, I don’t wanna be another notch in your bedpost. Another box to tick off on your list of Ricks. I wanna be the one you remember, not some faceless, interchangeable fuck.”

“Don’t worry, you’ve managed that,” you mutter under your breath.

This entire conversation you’ve sidled back from him. You don’t necessarily want to be further away from the door, but you definitely don’t want him to be close enough to get a hand on you.

The situation takes a marked turn for the worse when Rick suddenly seems less amused and more bored.

“Stop fucking around,” he says monotone voice.

That’s a peculiar tone, but it’s par for the course of this fucked up evening.

He gives his head another little shake as if to dislodge something. Slipping a hand into his pocket, he extracts the knife he had previously. How in the ever-loving hell did he get that back again?

Seeing the combination of confusion and alarm on your face, he brandishes it so it catches the light. “Morty picked it up for me when that dumb fuck bouncer left it on the floor. He’s a good kid.”

He levels the blade at you.

“Now, you dumb bitch, get back on the bed,” he commands, and comes toward you.

You have not gotten this far in life to be forced into sex by this asshole. This is the moment of truth. Are you to do what he says and let this happen, or are you going to fight back like all the times you to yourself you would? And you’re not dumb—yes, you work in a dive and you enjoy hooking up with Ricks, but because you give them something, most are willing to give you something in return.

You may have fucked them with their squad mates standing around the first time, but every single member of that SEAL Team has returned to your bedroom individually at least once, and more than one of them has given you some basic self-defense instruction.

Was it irony that Mismatched Eyes—who used a blade to cut your shirt off you and who seemed so forceful and willing to abuse you—would be the one to teach you how to deal with a knife attack? Something omnipotent was probably laughing somewhere.

As Rick comes nearer, you remembered your lessons and go to the balls of your feet. You also turned slightly sideways, offering a smaller target. Heart pounding and breath coming more quickly in anticipation, you still tried to keep your joints and muscles loose, so when Rick went for you—and he did, with a sharp, snake-like movement—you could slip to his side and smash your fist on his forearm.

His hand spasmed and he dropped the weapon.

You kicked it—ouch! Your foot!—away and under the bed.

“Goddamn it!” he snarled, reaching for you, hands hooked into claws.

You keep your arms up to protect your face and pivot, lifting your leg and slamming your knee into his abdomen, Eyepatch Rick whispering in your ear to be fully committed in the strike, and to remember to pretend you're driving your knee straight through the fucker’s body.

The wind knocked out of him, the Rick in front of you doubles over, wheezing. He grabs at you again, weakly, but you skip back. 

His hands, missing you, grasp at the bed instead. He continues to wheeze and his knees buckle. You kick him again, hoping to hit his kidney because Eyepatch and a couple of the others from the SEAL Team told you it will floor someone if you do it right. Your foot stings from the impact; Rick tries to cry out but can’t make any sound.

You should get out of here! You should _run!_

But he is so broken. You just beat the shit out of an old man! He’s trembling and can’t take in a full breath, and his back is arched in pain and suddenly he slumps to the floor—what if you killed Rick Sanchez in your own bedroom?!

Despite the survival-first portion your brain trying to remind you of what happens in horror movies and still urging you to get the fuck out of there, you put a shaky hand on his upper arm and say, 

“Are you okay—“

Before you can even complete the question Rick whips up and around, seizing your wrist and twisting your arm up and back as he starts to stand.

It’s your already injured wrist. You cry out in pain.

 _“You dumb fucking cunt!”_ he laugh-roars in your face.

Even though the pain is piercing and fighting against him kicks it to excruciating, you surge forward and head butt him.

His head snaps back. His grip loosens, but the resultant agony and ringing in your own head from the blow stuns you too much to capitalize on it.

Blood pours out of both Rick’s nostrils and runs down his face. With the earlier black eye you’d given him, he looks demonic when he focuses on you again.

“Oh baby, fucking you is gonna be so good,” he tells you clearly, licking the blood from his lips in a parody of sexy.

You’re so dizzy. Nobody ever told you using your head against someone fucks yours too. You’re out of adrenaline, and whatever lingering drug still in your system catches up to you again. You’re a disappointment to the SEAL Team that tried to help teach you to keep yourself safe. You are just a dumb bitch—

Your knees give out, but unlike Rick, this isn’t a ruse. 

You drift away for a moment, not hindering or helping him as he hauls you back to the bed and flops you down onto it, half on and half off.

Rick forces your legs apart and says something, but you can’t quite understand words right now.

Through it all, he hasn’t removed his lab coat. He pushes his trousers down further, though, exposing himself.

He says something else. 

It doesn’t register.

He wipes his face and gets a handful of clotting blood. From a distance, you watch him take his cock, lubing himself with the gore.

It makes no difference.

When he spits on your pussy and forces his blood-covered cock into you—those two fingers he used earlier are nothing compared to this intrusion. A final, desperate spark of rage surges through you.

You sit up, surprising him, and grab for his lapels. He tries to slap you off and hold you down, but you claw at him until you find your prize: his portal gun.

Not hesitating, not concerned with coordinates, you palm smash the keyboard and punch the button.

The familiar eddying green of a portal has never looked so welcome.

Rick’s still trying to hold you down, and manages one hefty knock to your jaw. Fighting to ignore the new pain, you deliberately strike him in the nose, breaking the clots open again with a rush of fresh blood. When he jerks back in involuntary pain, you raise legs, plant your feet on his chest and shove, driving him backwards into the portal.

It constricts and disappears.

You’re left on your bed, covered in blood with a portal gun clutched in your shaking hand. Your entire body aches.

It finally feels like you can breathe again. All you want to do is sob.

You lay motionless for a bit, trying to calm yourself down. You can’t seem to stop shaking. Eventually you come to the conclusion you can’t stay in this room. You need to get up and out and clean yourself off. Getting clean and washing Rick’s blood off you—inside and out—is going to be the first step to feeling human again, then you can assess the damage to your wrist and his last punch to your face.

Getting up slowly, you’re surprised at how weak you feel. When you try to stand upright, you almost collapse. You give yourself time to adjust while crouching on the floor. While you’re down there, you catch a glimpse of the knife you’d managed to kick under the bed. 

It needs to go. You don’t want reminders of that psycho here. 

Grabbing it, you finally feel strong enough to get up. Knife in one hand and portal gun in the other, you shuffle out the bedroom door and down the short hallway of your flat. 

The Morty with the eyepatch sitting in your living room, on the couch. He's been watching your progression into the room. You can’t even care to cover yourself and stand frozen, staring at him.

“I told him you didn’t get enough to keep you down. He knew how much I put in that soda, but you saw how much spilled,” he says. His voice is soulless.

“Get out,” you tell him, low and dangerous.

He eyes you, and the knife you're holding.

“I told him he should’ve given you more when we first got here. To keep you asleep,” he continues, like you wanted more explanation. “Then we both could’ve had some fun.”

“Get _out.”_

Your thumb depresses the activation button on the gun again. You half hope it bisects this Morty, but you’re shaking too much to aim it that precisely.

Morty smirks and gives you a cheeky little tip of his head, then steps through the portal.

For a second time, it collapses on itself. You sink to your knees as it does, and the anger, pain and fright of tonight’s events catch up to you again. You curl up on the floor and stare at nothing, for a long time.


	3. Chapter 3

**Epilogue:**

You’re still trembling. You don’t know if you’ll ever stop. It takes you a few tries to enter the coordinates correctly, but you finally manage it. You never knew a portal could open on a floor, but it’s nice, it’s good. You can just crawl to it.

You got it right, you hope. You end up on the floor of a garage, still naked, still gory, still bruised and exhausted beyond anything you’ve ever felt before. 

“Holy-holy sh-shit! Rick!” a kid screeches.

Rick, who’d been turned away at his work bench, spins around. Unlike the Morty you startled, he seems speechless.

“Rick C-137, right?” you croak. 

“Holy _shit,_ Rick!” Morty shouts again, and moves to cover you with a tarp.

He doesn’t have an eyepatch, but you flinch away from him.

Rick sees your reaction, steps between the two of you, takes the tarp away from his grandson, and pulls it over you himself. “Y-yeah, that’s me.”

You reach for him with your uninjured hand. He takes it and grips it tightly with cool dry fingers. 

“I need you . . . need you to erase my memory,” you manage to tell him, before succumbing to the welcoming arms of black unconsciousness.

⁂ ⁂ ⁂ ⁂ ⁂

Sunlight streams through your window.

You stretch as you wake up. Your wrist aches and as you yawn, your jaw does too. You try and twist your wrist, nice and easy, but it’s compressed by a bandage to limit your movement. You puzzle on that a moment while you swing your feet out of bed. 

The clothes you thought you remembered leaving on the floor are in your hamper. You also don’t _quite_ remember putting pyjamas on after getting home, but you must have after your shower. You don’t know who attended to your wrist, but you must have sprained it pretty badly in your efforts to get the gun stored under the bar while the ruckus was going on last night. That bump on your face—from hitting the bar, for the same reason, right?—really rattled your brain. 

You hum to yourself while you make breakfast. Too bad that scarred lip Rick was completely smashed and out of control when he showed up at the Bar last night. Too bad his Morty was with him!

Maybe he’ll be back, you think. Maybe he’ll be back, without Morty, and maybe you’ll get the chance to know him better . . .

Smiling to yourself at the idea of bringing him home, you wonder what it will feel like to kiss lips cleaved by an old wound, and can’t wait for the opportunity to find out.

_fin._


End file.
